Falling
by msfcatlover
Summary: Falling in love...such a simple phrase. But for some reason, it fit better than any of the fancy flourishes ever did. Post-game, Chelley, Android!Wheatley.


Sometimes he didn't know whether to admire or hate his creators.

He couldn't help but appreciate how much effort they must have put into his emotive processors; those strange little machines deep within him that seemed to nearly completely govern his thoughts (certainly his mouth belonged to them.) A whole team of someones had spent _years_, probably, making chemical reactions and coded messages, all so that he could feel and (mostly) recognize what he felt…just like they did naturally.

At the same time, he hated the hopeless helplessness he had so much of the time. He couldn't stand the sparking painful wrench of sadness, or loneliness, or _guilt_, which seemed just as common. His whole-hearted optimism didn't necessarily mean he was happy; it was just a sign of how desperately he _wanted_ to be. That wonderful, light emotion which always made him feel like something in him was made of gold.

Now, though, was something new. A bright, sparkly sort of feeling that hummed within his head, never stopping. It called up other thoughts and feelings, like guilt and happiness, somehow at the exact same time. It made him think of her smile when she wasn't there, and her scowl the next moment. It made him stare into her eyes, not thinking of anything in particular, and feel _warm_ deep in his core. And when he was alone, he could poke and prod at it in his mind, try to puzzle it out, but the closer she was, the louder it hummed, until it drowned out all his other thoughts.

He wanted to ask her about it. She'd know, because she always knew, and if she didn't know, she could figure it out so much easier and better than he could… But for some reason seriously considering the option made his temperature spike and his vocal processor stutter and glitch until he just gave up and changed the topic (in his own head or actual conversation, it didn't seem to matter.) And so he was left to search in books, where it seemed he could find any number of things that vaguely resembled it at first, but lead to other things that made him blush just to think of, and often lead to him shoving whatever it was back onto the shelf as fast as he could with little regard for the condition of the cover or pages. It wasn't a "deep, burning passion," or a "molten fire," or even a "wild ride," after all. It was just a sparkly, mostly happy sort of humming feeling that happened to be connected to a good friend.

And then, one simple, short phrase leapt out at him from a page. It fit, oddly, because after all this did feel a bit like that glorious, weightless moment between the management rail and the floor, sometimes. This head-over-heels tumble in his own head certainly matched up with the sort of imagery the innocent little term called up. And now that he was sure, he knew he had no choice but to tell her.

He'd written it out more times than he could count. Nothing sounded right, none of those grand declarations he read about, or watched in the films Back There. They weren't really _him_; worse, they'd never do anything more than make her laugh, and he wasn't at all sure how he'd handle that. He supposed it would end the same way his leap of faith had: face-first into the floor. Only worse, it would definitely be worse, and he had only a few moments in his memory he could use for potency comparison when it came to failing miserably. At least, in connection with her.

And now, sitting next to her on the couch, watching the old telly play the credits from some show he hadn't really been able to pay attention to, distracted by her closeness and the hum thudding away between his ears, he really desperately needed to _say something,_ but the only thing he could think of was that phrase, circling his head and sending off all sorts of nonsensical thoughts. He cleared his throat, or rather, ran the file that made a sound any human would identify as clearing his throat.

She turned her questioning eyes to him, leaving all thoughts running for cover. His jaw worked as he struggled to come up with the words.

"You…you know that human saying of yours? Um…f-falling in love?" He bit down on his lip to keep anything else from slipping out while he wasn't paying attention. She nodded slowly.

A small, gasping laugh snuck in when he tried to finish. Shaking, somewhere between terror and euphoria, he managed to ask the question that had been on the tip of his (metaphorical) tongue for only a few weeks, but somehow felt like an eternity.

"D…D'you s'pose you c-could…catch me?"

* * *

><p>She looked at him, shaking and stuttering and wringing his hands, this silly little robot who was far too human for the good of either of them, and smiled. She'd read the books as well and had always marveled at the stupidity of the characters, throwing themselves head-first into something they didn't understand, often with someone they barely knew (she never started a test until she was fairly sure of what it entailed.)<p>

She'd seen him at his best and at his worst, and vice versa. They had their differences, but she'd never been one to give up on anything, be it a test or a friendship. She knew she had to admit that she was biased; he was familiar, something she could count on to be known, always. And in that way, he was different from practically everything in this strange, free world.

But his rambling made the quiet that much more bearable on those long, dark nights, and his smile when she came down the stairs every morning was better than any of the drinks she'd tried to wake her up, even if it was expected. When memories were too much, she knew he'd cling to her knees and beg for her forgiveness all over again, and she could rely on him to hold her until the shaking and the tears finally stopped, despite how uncomfortable it made him. He had more than enough tales to keep her interested, and he always made her laugh.

He made her happy.

She'd never been one for large displays of affection, but she let herself lean across the couch and gently wrap her arms around him. She felt one of his under her shoulders, automatically helping her balance as she drew her knees in closer. She looked up at him from his lap, that slow, lazy smile on her face, and nodded.

* * *

><p>Noticed that a lot of other people were writing confession scenes for these two. Now, I enjoyed most of their stories when I read them, and I have nothing against the authors, but I have a hard time seeing Wheatley just come out and say those three magic words. What I do see is something more like this: him torturing himself over it, trying to find a big, fancy way of saying it...and ending up just blurting out something slightly convoluted, but so much more meaningful to the two of them than any amount of flowers or speeches ever would be.<p>

I'm very happy with how this came out. Please Read & Review!

Inspirational music: _Arms_ by Christina Perri


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